


Like Sugar Dissolved In Black Coffee

by Eglentyne



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglentyne/pseuds/Eglentyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Michaelis runs the Catspaw Coffeeshop and Roastery in the quaint college town of Stamford-Newark. Sebastian’s immortal existence had grown stale, until an interesting newcomer by the name of “Phantomhive” strolls into his shop. As Ciel Phantomhive begins searching for answers in regards to his late parents, and the truth of their murder, he learns corruption runs deeper than what he would have bargained for. With Sebastian seemingly a passive observer, what does a demon have to gain from involving himself in a privileged student’s family drama? Or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Fanfic Advisory: Despite the relative tameness of this first chapter, subsequent chapters and development of the story will contain disturbing and uncomfortable themes. This work of fiction is written by an adult for an adult audience and I refuse to give warning for content that some readers might find offensive. You as the reader are responsible for determining your own level of discretion and have the freedom to turn back at any time. As the late author Oscar Wilde once said, "There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all."

A barista’s morning begins early, when the traffic lights are still blinking red and yellow and before the _Stamford Journal_ arrives. He sips his first cup of coffee while barreling down the empty business interstate, taking the second downtown exit, and wheeling into a dim parking lot behind the row of buildings on Sprague Street between Fourth and Fifth. For him, coffee is not for alertness at some ungodly hour, but more for the principle of it.

He sets to his routine, just as always: count tills out of the safe, warm the coffee shuttles, fire up the espresso machine, batch beans, and stock the condiment bar. As he pulls chairs from off top the tables, he makes note of details the evening crew might have missed, such as trash not taken out or the light bulb that burned out above the counter. Of course he’ll have a word or two later, because these details should never go unnoticed.

It is with detail, efficiency and ease of skill that he can provide coffee to the masses with consistency and excellence. That is the barista aesthetic.

As the sun peaks down the length of Sprague Street, he straightens his tie as he greets the first customer of the day. “G’morning, sir, what can I get for you?”

A middle-aged business man grabs a local paper from the rack by the door in an automatic fashion, ignores the chipper reception, but decides to save his response for when he reaches the counter. As he offers the paper to have it scanned, he takes one look at the barista’s hands and sneers. He mumbles, “Large coffee too,” having found reason to skip the formalities.

The barista notices the scowl this older-looking sir gave him, but that’s not going to affect the responsiveness of his service. He turns after pouring coffee into a paper cup from the shuttle and remarks, “Today’s brew is our Stamford city roast, a well-rounded—”

“Great, how much?” He pulls a five from his wallet and lets it flutter to the counter between them. The barista blinks at it, then raises his gaze and flashes a very pointy smile. Whatever sentiment that may hide behind that service industry facade is probably less than pleasant, as one can imagine, and this barista in particular happens to possess a laughably vicious imagination.

Plucking it up he answers with an even-toned, “Three eighty-eight,” and makes a point to hand him the change like a polite gentleman. “Cream and sugar’s on the side there, have a blessed day.”

From the brief touch of handing back the dollar and twelve cents (which he decided to hold onto instead of putting it in the tip jar), the barista learns this man had hit the bottle hard the previous night. His wife had caught wind of his affair, from whispers of it over Sunday brunch with friends after church, to make matters worse. He had left for the office early just so he didn’t have to deal with seeing her this morning. The smell of whiskey and shame is in acrid contrast to the cafe’s pervasive coffee smell.

He doctors up his coffee with the Sweet n’ Lo, not without splashing a bit of it on condiment counter and deciding he can’t find the time to clean it. However, he does find the time before leaving to snap, “You should clean up those finger nails of yours, if your job is to serve people. Who manages this place anyway?”

The barista points with one of those black-nailed fingers to a placard above the condiment area that reads, “Catspaw Coffee Shop and Roastery, est. 1997, Sebastian Michaelis, owner and manager, awarded ‘Best of Stamford-Newark’” then points to his name tag.

* * *

Barista is a perfectly curious occupation for one as curiously perfect as Sebastian Michaelis. Knowing his preference for order, routine, and his custom of fulfilling any task by way of effortless pageantry, it’s quite understandable how that role would just agree with him. After all, it took a full century for him to find something he could settle into after the termination of his previous employment. 

Prior to the beginning of the twentieth century, he had spent years building up his persona with a whole host of preferences and habits, talents both natural and unnatural, styles in appearance and speech and thought. Along with this identity came an insatiable thirst to witness the products of a civilization that was churning at dizzying speed. Sebastian had come into the world by unholy means to serve a very singular purpose, as demons are inclined to do on rare occasions. Once his purpose had been completed, it was expected by the natural order of things that he should return to those infernal expanses of perpetual hollow and decay. But humans and their clever ingenuity, with combustible engines and telegraphs and electricity, then later radio, leaps in sound and video recording, the sheer boom of information and the required technology to disseminate it had him concerned that if he should leave he might miss an even more interesting development. When humans finally figured out refrigeration and air conditioning, he concluded it would be a cold day in Hell before he would go back by choice.

With all the grand wonders they conceive and the spirited efforts to make a utopia on earth, they are equally fantastic at causing a holy terror that neither angel nor demon can hold a flaming sword to.  Between the long term effects of industrialization, the development of nuclear technologies, the instabilities of their own social, economic and political systems, they prove capable of destroying themselves without help from him or any other demonic personality. Their towers built on steel and glass reach impossible heights, they fly to secret corners of the world faster than even than he can travel, and develop wealth in numbers that he could never conceive. Humans achieve a level of insatiable blood lust that exceeds his own and redefine deadly sin in ways he could never inspire.

An episodic look into his existential crisis is a story best left untold, but it might have involved quite a bit of traveling and soul searching. After two World Wars, he eventually ended up state side because Americans too have a real thirst for travel and soul searching, in their own optimistic way.

On once such wayward excursion to nowhere, Sebastian was driving down back roads in some mostly forgotten country side, where delineations between county lines were swallowed up by wilderness. As he passed a dirt road on a winding two-way highway he felt a sort of itching, that prickling remnant of evil that settles on a place where someone performed some heinous act. This pattern has a way of embedding itself like a blood stain. Being the forever curious individual, he turned around and downshifted onto this overgrown single lane up the side of a hill.

At the end of it he found an abandoned church, the typical white Baptist variety, but with vines tearing at the molded siding. What few windows that managed to not be busted had a drooping, forlorn condition to them. From the outside it looked to be but one large chapel with no adjacent rooms or alcoves, a paltry building funded by a long-gone meager congregation.

Entering the structure that was still mostly sound, Sebastian understood that more than the natural wild had worked its way in. Where there might have been pews or chairs down the nave he instead encountered a large pentagram painted over the floor, not unlike his but with different sigils. In a not so distant past someone had used the church for a good old-fashioned conjuration. Judging from the claw marks on the walls, and the blood worked into the warped floor boards, he concluded that some miserable bastard had botched it by way of forgetting one crucial component.

The loss of life is a requirement for demons to even ascend to a physical plane: a soul released to carry the message and the spilling of blood to fashion a bodily form. Apparently when someone picked up a grimoire and got the bad idea, he left out this stipulation in the act of demon summoning. Unfortunately for him some nefarious brethren happened to be listening, probably showed up disembodied and pissed for not having anything to house it, and proceeded to devour the conjurer from the inside out as payment.

Besides the impulse to shake his head at the abject stupidity of some humans, Sebastian could not ignore the implications of this discovery. From his wandering experience he learned that technology prompted by an age of fervent rationalism had done a better job at stamping out superstition better than anything. Even still, there existed some pockets of belief in the developed world. He happened across the despair and bitterness that still lurked in those Civil War graveyards, the old trees that whispered stories of lynching with only the putrid swamps to receive them. He saw a star on every barn, the pig roasts of October like a final salutation to summer. He was so charmed to hear the phrase, “The devil’s beatin’ his wife again,” during another impromptu sun shower. How they preached with such a loving fear of the devil in their churches. Sebastian in his insatiable curiosity wanted a way to sink into such a place and make residence.

The coffee shop seemed an obvious choice for a southern town like Stamford-Newark where its people considered it a “fetching little novelty.” What a way to gain favor by offering an addictive product prepared and served in a manner that Sebastian knows best. How delicious it is that he can observe and study the comings and goings of people, how they offer up their life stories in three-minute segments, and how they keep coming back for more than just the coffee. As one who is a glutton for attention, it seems a perfectly sound means to live, for surely he could wait in the wings for one soul, some cry for desperation, someone to ruffle his feathers and have him soaring into a worthwhile contractual agreement.

The nature of the coffee shop is that one’s employment is never meant to be a long-term arrangement, but rather a transition point towards something different. Sebastian reasoned he’d manage the business for a small while, sell it, and then be on his way towards that imagined ideal of contract work. Thirteen years just breeze on by, peeling paint off brick buildings and throwing rot onto rooftops. Stamford-Newark has its own natural decay rate like so many other small towns, but after a time Sebastian felt that stagnation sinking onto him, like an all-terrain vehicle that got itself stuck in the mud and doesn’t have enough torque to pull itself out. On the other hand, Catspaw Coffee Shop and Roastery developed a reputation for itself in the community, a beacon of small business hope. It’s not exactly Hell, but the sheer monotony of his existence makes him all the more mindful of that agitating hunger.

This sensation is at its sharpest during those early hours of the morning that play themselves out in predictable routine. Churning out lattes is a never-ending succession of pour, steam, grind, tamp, lock, pull, and pour again. The smell of coffee batches brewed one after the other lose their alluring scent and become stale in the nose until the perception of the scent is forgotten. What customers perceive as genuine conversation is really scripted verse that Sebastian has perfected through countless recitations. Among the frenetic order, he loses count of the times he has fantasized about ending this choreography in savory cataclysm, to leap on the counter, tear into screaming faces, and suck the souls from every one of them like marrow from cracked bone.

Even if the instinct to charge about like a ravenous beast enters into his passionless mind, he talks himself out of it because the payoff doesn’t justify the hassle. Being unbound in contract puts him high on the Reaper’s watch list. He learned some time back while raising Hell in Kansas that the States Division possesses uniquely harsh protocols in dealing with his ilk. Reapers riding farm tractors and packing firearms (standard-issue automatic assault death rifles) is his vision of a very bad day, and something he’s not inclined to reenact.

Also, Sebastian has his employees to consider, which are not intolerable to have around, most of the time. A lot of people will come and go for the short term, especially in a college town like Stamford-Newark, but a few baristas manage to stick around and develop the “lifer” status. Roy has the longest track record, having been hired on when Sebastian first set up shop on Sprague and required a roaster. Little did he know that the only experience Roy had when it came to “roasting” was on a deployment to Bosnia some years back (he swears she was eighteen). Regardless of his hotheadedness and a habit of showing up to work hung over, Roy met the challenge of learning the art of coffee roasting. It took a few months of trial and error, turning several shipments into unbrewable charcoal, and Sebastian exercising an exemplary patience of not throwing the man into the roasting drum.  

Roy might have been born and raised in Stamford-Newark but the others came from elsewhere and settled. The moment May-Lynn opens her mouth, out trickles a honey-sweet Mississippi drawl, and she uses it as her primary tool in the subtle art of tip flirting. She walked into the shop with only a pair of Doc Martins to her name, pleading for a job and of course Sebastian has a soft spot for the hard cases. She might have been running from an abusive boyfriend, or father, on account that whenever Roy starts into one of his tirades May lifts her glasses in response. The lady probably learned a long time ago that if there’s a chance of getting hit, it’s best not wear spectacles. Sebastian suspects she has a pistol holstered underneath the gingham dresses she wears to work, with no license to conceal carry.

Finn was hired as a college-kid barista, projected short-term employment, but became a one-year drop out when he discovered post-high school that he possesses the reading level of an eleven year old. Even a wrestling scholarship couldn’t keep him enrolled in a four-year university. Though he was not cut out for academics, he has an uncanny ability for remembering customer’s names, their drink orders, what pastry they bought last Tuesday, and when they’re due for an oil change. As much passion Finn has for his job, Sebastian has to keep the man’s enthusiasm to a minimum so he doesn’t break things, bless his heart.

Sebastian learned six weeks after hiring Snake that he’s as sharp as a tack and took to the espresso machine faster than most anyone he’s ever hired. Perhaps there exists some fierce temperament within him, buried underneath his uniquely pale complexion that has forced him into a life where he must always try to prove himself. After regarding his wide nose, prominent lips and blonde hair with incredible texture, Sebastian had to ask, “do you have albinism?” He was more concerned for any eye problems that could impair Snake’s work, but turns out the chap considers that the least of his worries. Despite not being the social butterfly, he spends more time at the coffee shop than anyone, sitting in the cafe well after his shift is over. There’s rumor he’s working on writing a novel, but no one can actually verify that.

Like so many other late mornings, Sebastian takes over from Snake’s morning shift on the bar. On week days things quiet to a crawl around eleven o’ clock, so eventually May and Finn step off the floor for a break, leaving Sebastian to man the front on his own. He goes over his Monday mental checklist, payroll processed, still have to run to the bank, start on the next schedule, begin inventory count...

As he stands leaning against the counter a most refreshing smell disrupts his train of thought. It reminds him of that savory cataclysm he was fantasizing about earlier, but perhaps a little meatier, a hint of dark sweetness like molasses, and an undercurrent of sea spray, almost a sullen nostalgia.

Sebastian peers around the espresso machine in search for the source of that delicious scent and discovers a young man standing by the door, looking at the chalk board menu with deep blue eyes. He’s not from around here.

“Hello, sorry if I kept you waiting,” he announces as he smooths down the front of his apron. The customer adjusts the strap on his messenger bag as he steps forward in leather loafers. It seems in contrast to the standard trappings of the average college kid, book bags, gym shoes, and a perpetual state of mental disarray. “What can I get for you?”

“A cortado, please.” Definitely not the standard fare.

Sebastian feels as though this might be the first genuine smile he’s given all day. A demon is very capable of smiling in a genuine way, in how a smile is supposed to reach the eyes, but the effect on Sebastian is very different. How he raises an eyebrow reveals his feeling of intrigue, which is a perfectly normal reason for a demon to smile. The effect is evocative to an almost uncomfortable degree for some people.

While many others would react by turning down a gaze, he holds his chin high and flicks his bangs out of the way. “How much?”

Sebastian realizes he had not been keeping up with his script, too preoccupied with taking in lad’s delicately masculine features, sharp nose set into a round face, smooth hair trimmed to frame it in a most pleasing way, soft cupid’s bow, and the subtle pout of his lower lip. “Is... is that all?” As soon as the words leave him he knows it‘s a stupid question, with this stranger pulling the wallet out of his back pocket, showing no indication of changing his mind. Sebastian decides to switch tactics. “Will you be sitting in? Would you like that for here?”

He shrugs his shoulders in that oxford shirt. “Eh, sure.”

“Coffee is more enjoyable that way, don’t you think? It’ll be two-fifty.”

When Sebastian deposits the coins into the young man’s palm, the sullen scent intensifies. He just walked from Newark University, which is about a twenty minute hike down Sprague. It’s his first semester of college and he has no idea why he agreed to it in the first place. Even if the demon senses displacement, uncertainty, loneliness, the student’s shoulders are held with a determination to hide such feelings. “I’ll have that right out, sir, won’t be a minute.” As Sebastian slides to the bar he hears the clink of quarters into the tip jar and he smirks. His new customer pulls a book from his messenger bag after seating himself at a corner table. Snake scratches away in a spiral notebook and Tanaka, the landlord for the block, works his ledgers as per usual.

Sebastian appreciates how the grinder can measure out espresso to a tenth of a gram so he doesn’t have to concern himself with precision. After tamping it and locking the group head into place, the milk he pours into a steaming pitcher feels an optimal thirty-six degrees, and it produces a satisfying tearing sound when the steam flits just against the surface. He opts for a glass demitasse because the color of a cortado is an appealing feature. The boiler in the espresso machine issues its tense gurgle. Espresso streams into the glass, a rolling of sienna and umber as crema rises to the surface. With milk steamed to the peak of sweetness, foam gleams even over its surface. As Sebastian pours he tilts the glass just so, and with a controlled dip a shock of white appears over the honey brown surface. After a couple of tips of the pitcher a small tulip appears.

Only a demon can pull off that kind of pouring into a five ounce glass.

May appears from the back of house and makes a quick stretch of her arms. “Finn’s coming back up too. You want us to handle it for a bit?”

With plenty of desk work to attend to, Sebastian could have just called the drink from the counter, but what’s five minutes to take the drink out into the cafe? May spots the dainty cup with saucer and remarks, “That’s mighty lovely,” as Sebastian passes her around the bar.

The strange gentleman sits back in his chair with his book and Sebastian reads on the cover, “Fluers du mal.” He thinks back to when he read such a collection of poems, for there was one that struck him in some distant age.

He looks up from his book. “Bringing it to my table? Is this the norm or am I a special case?” What a charming smile to match such a brazen question. Without a bar between them he has a clearer view of the barista’s tall physique, and smirks after a quick glance at Sebastian’s Oxfords peaking from under the hem of dark slacks.

Sebastian watches those pale eyes dart back and forth, and concludes it is an invitation. “I just about to head to the back to work on some rather dull, tedious scheduling... but you can be a special case if you want. I can spare a few minutes.” Sebastian hands him the demitasse and saucer, and catches a whiff of honey warmth, peppered with a touch of curiosity. “Do you mind if I sit?”

He shakes those ashy locks of his and gestures to the chair, then picks up his cortado. Sebastian is accustomed to some exclamation over his artistry with coffee, but perhaps that is why the boy looks at it for a moment before the rim of the dainty cup touches his lips. He makes not a noise, but the demon recognizes a brief flutter of delicate eyelashes, and takes that as a compliment. Sebastian rests his elbows on the table, hoping to soak in some other little sign of satisfaction that may leak through such a starched composure.

“I may have found a new favorite.” Surely he’s referring to the drink.

“You are most welcome, young sir.” Sebastian reaches across the table for the book. “It’s been a long while since I’ve read this. Maybe I’m making assumptions, seems modern French poetry isn’t the standard reading fare.”

“I’ve studied French long enough, maybe I only care about my own standard. Besides, it’s interesting.”

“As much of a reason to pursue anything.” Sebastian pauses in opening the book, opting instead to run his fingers over the cover that it should kick up some remnant of this curious young lad. “Are you going to Newark? Have you determined a major?”

“First question yes, second, I’m pre-law, but haven’t determined my course of study.” The end of how he speaks that sentence feels a little prickly. He reaches for his cup again, then eyes the name tag on the barista’s apron. “Sebastian. Hmm. Something tells me you’re not from here.”

Sebastian has made a very concerted effort to blend in with his surroundings, adopting its dialect, behaviors and speech patterns. He learned long ago that speaking with received pronunciation is a terrible distraction during initial encounters who considered his accent “exotic.” Sebastian lies and says, “I’m from here, why do you think I’m not?”

“Because I can’t imagine that to be your real name. I mean, who names their kid ‘Sebastian?’ Unless your parents are Austrian, or German, or something.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “I don’t know, something about you seems...”

Sebastian bends in closer. “Seems different? Stick out in a place like this? You would know all about that.” The young man after all sounded a little more generalized in his speech, like he had grown up listening to a great many different people with different modes of speaking.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I know for a fact you’re not from around here.”

“Oh really?” He sets his cup down, then leans into the table as well. “What if I told you I was in fact born here?”

“Well, I was bound to make a wrongful assumption eventually.” Sebastian smirks, then looked down at “Fleurs du mal.” Everything about this young gentleman holds a fascination. If he was born here, then he certainly didn’t live his short life here, and he certainly wouldn’t throw off this out-of-place feeling. He carries himself with a low-key sophistication, well-bred without the inflated sense of self-importance. Sebastian wants this curious fellow to be a return customer, convinced there is a complexity to him worth exploring. “I bet you made the assumption I don’t know Baudelaire.” He turns to a particular poem in the book, one such that spoke to him so very long ago.

“Que m'importe que tu sois sage? Sois belle! Et sois triste!” Sebastian has a deep appreciation for the beautiful, foolish, melancholy soul. “Les pleurs ajoutent un charme au visage...”

From sweet lips issue a perfect peel of French. “Comme le fleuve au paysage, l'orage rajeunit les fleurs,” thus ending a stanza with a startling “you’re pretty when you cry” sort of sentiment.

Sebastian can’t help but stare at those blue eyes, a landscape of hidden sorrow. “So you’re familiar with Madrigal Triste.” Sebastian remembers when he first encountered the poem, the quiet nights reciting over and over by candlelight, the sight of a small child with tears in his eyes. Such words ring of the beauty of a soul brimming with despair, and what perfect satisfaction can be found in feasting upon it. Perhaps Sebastian has spent quite a lot of time trying to forget that aesthetic, and how it left him so bereft.

He gazes into the bottom of his glass at the last dregs of coffee. “Yes. Good poetry helps to put one’s thoughts into perspective, I guess. And I like the cadence of it.”

 “Young man, what is your name?” Sebastian blurts out because he is certain that this person should no longer be a stranger to him, that he should have reason to exist within his realm of insignificance, if only to wash away some bit of monotony in his existence.

“Why do you care to know?”

“Because I know the names of my regular customers.”

“This is my first time here.”

“And it won’t be your last.” Sebastian pulls a drink coupon from his shirt pocket. “Your name for a free drink. Seems a fair exchange, since you already know mine.”

He reaches for the card with languid fingers, brushing against Sebastian’s coal-black nails, then snatches it up before either can savor the contact. “It’s Ciel.”

“Just Ciel? Is that like Cher?” Sebastian plucks up the card again.

Ciel reaches for it once more, but Sebastian holds it just out of reach. “No... my last name’s...” He crosses his arms. “Phantomhive.”

“Ah.” Sebastian hands Ciel the coupon. “Well, Mr. Phantomhive, a pleasure meeting you, and I do hope to see you soon, but I have to get to that awful desk work I was talking about.” He returns the book of poetry and stands from the table.

“Wait, hang on.”

For the first time in their encounter Ciel reveals a real sliver of vulnerability as the chair scoots on the tile floor as he stands up. “And the next time we meet, you’re going to tell me where you’re really from. Because no one speaks French like that. You liar.”

“Am I?” Sebastian pushes in his chair before turning to the direction of the back room. He tosses over his shoulder, “You caught me. But that information will cost you.”

Ciel crosses his arms. “Name your price.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot up at such an audacious command. “Come back tomorrow for that free coffee, Mr. Phantomhive, and I’ll quote you.”

“Fine, I will, and don’t call me that, that was my father’s name,” Ciel barks at Sebastian walking away.

Of course Sebastian is well aware of Ciel’s late father, but hasn’t heard the name Phantomhive in a literal dog’s age.

Thirteen years, to be precise.


	2. Chapter 2

Sebastian feels he is two breaths away from wringing the necks of some very careless baristas. May-Lynn, who was sent to dish duty after morning rush, forgets to turn off the faucet in the dish sink, thereby turning the back room into a swamp of soapy water. For some inexplicable reason, Finn runs down the length of the store with a twenty-five pound sack of beans, slips on the wet floor and spills it everywhere. To top it off, Roy shows up late to work with a hangover as his only sorry excuse, thereby unable to relieve Sebastian from the front counter to tend to managerial duties. He is commanded to get himself right and help the pair of fools clean the back of house as penance. Snake, at his station on bar, silently judges the whole fiasco.

The oppressive humidity of the warmer months can cloud people's heads, even causing lapses in common sense. As Sebastian ponders this observation the door opens to admit a burst of late summer air, and with it Ciel Phantomhive, most likely to cash in that free drink coupon from the previous day. For the moment the manager compresses his annoyance for his staff with a service industry façade.

"Hello, Mr. Phantomhive, care for another cortado?" Snake takes Sebastian's greeting as a cue to prep a beverage and the espresso grinder whirrs to life.

The greeting causes Ciel to bristle. "No, it's too hot and I told you not to call me that. Can I get something cold?" Try as he might to wave away this annoyance, he fumbles to procure the coupon from the back pocket of his chino shorts.

Snake says from the bar, "I can pour this espresso over ice if you want." Honey brown coffee streams like syrup into a pair of shot glasses.

"I don't think I've ever tried it before."

"I'll make it the way I like it, you tell me what you think."

Sebastian usually trusts Snake's judgment when it comes to recommendations for customers, and he nods in approval. "Well, anything else for you Mr.… excuse me, Ciel?" He smirks at his own scripted fumble.

Appearing none too amused, Ciel folds his arms. "Yeah, did you forget our agreement yesterday?"

"Oh you know, it's been such a trying morning and the topic of yesterday's conversation seems to have slipped my mind." In a mock gesture Sebastian looks to the ceiling as though trying to catch a memory of the event.

"Bossman, you playin'." Snake swirls espresso in an iced plastic cup. "'I'll quote you,' you said. Ciel wants to know where you from." Sebastian would not have considered that Snake, who had been writing in the café the previous day, had paid any attention to their conversation. Judging from how he eyes the other two men, Snake seems just as interested in catching a glimpse into Sebastian's personal life. Sebastian makes it a point to keep a distance from his employees, and he's not about to air information in a professional setting.

"Ah, yes, thank you for that reminder, Snake." Sebastian takes the finished drink and hands it to Ciel, along with a straw. "My word, Ciel, I didn't think you were that interested, so you really did come out here to see me. I'm flattered."

Ciel tears the wrapper from the straw and jams it into the lid of the cup, preferring to divert his attention to his iced coffee. After a pull from the drink he smacks his lips. "Huh. That's actually… pretty satisfying. What is this?"

Snake cleans out the used portafilter. "Iced espresso with condensed milk."

Sebastian glances at the can of condensed milk on the counter. That wasn't on the supply order last week. "Where did you get that, Snake?"

"Aldi's."

"Snake… you can't do that." Sebastian feels the last tendrils of his patience snapping. "You can't serve customers things that you bring in here."

"Why not? All our other products gotta come from a store."

Ciel mumbles from across the counter, "Holy crap I really like this. Sebastian, you should put this on the menu."

Sebastian points a finger. "You stay out of this, Mr. Phantomhive."

"Hey!"

Snake rolls his eyes. "C'mon bossman, dude loves it, don't hate on my condensed milk."

Sebastian pulls at the strings of his apron. "You know what? I'm stepping off the floor for a bit before I hang someone from the rafters. Snake, I'm sure you were expecting to be done with your shift soon, but considering the way the morning's been, you're staying on until they finish cleaning back there." He hangs his apron on the hook in the corner and steps around the counter. "I'm on break. If you need help, call Roy up front. Ciel, take a walk with me."

Snake shrugs his shoulders and mumbles something onto the counter but Sebastian doesn't feel like reprimanding him for his cheek. He is at the door before Ciel registers the behest, and he scrambles to follow him outside and into the swelter.

The cheerfully scalding sun on his face acts as a reset button for Sebastian's lacerated temper. The brick and concrete radiate the heat even more, thereby turning the block into a very effective sauna. Ciel decides he can tolerate a lack of air-conditioning, if it means a moment to glean some information about this curious coffee shop owner.

"Thank you for being a distraction from the store for a bit. I am not kidding when I say I want to murder someone, but that is in nobody's best interest, don't you think?" Ciel nods in silent agreement as he sips at his drink. "Okay, you want to know where I'm from, but first I want to know what brought you back to Stamford-Newark."

The two amble down the sidewalk, Sebastian making sure to take a slow stride so his company doesn't have to scramble to keep pace. He glances at the muscles of those shapely calves as Ciel walks.

"Sebastian, why do I get the feeling you already know something about me?"

The demon considers it a dizzying coincidence that he should be in the company of the only son of the late Phantomhives. It was during that election year in 1996 when the murders of Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive had made national news, an event which brought Sebastian Michaelis to a town he would have otherwise ignored. With Vincent on the ballot as a state representative, the tragedy brought more attention to him than his campaign ever did, and of course the public was quick to serve their vindication for the arrested suspect. Sebastian was just as swift in wanting to know the details about the man convicted for the Phantomhive murders.

He's not about to tell Ciel all of that, of course. "Maybe I'm just super perceptive."

"Or you're just full of shit." Ciel wishes his questions would not continue to be evaded, especially when the heat was frying his patience.

Sebastian side steps in mock-offense. "Gracious, and here I thought you might have wanted the pleasure of my company."

"I do— I mean…! Damn it." Sebastian smells the sweat on the back of Ciel's neck as the hot wind whisks around the buildings.

It only takes a block for them to pass into a very different looking view of downtown, as opposed to the fancy hair salons and gift shops of Sprague. From across the street on the corner of Fifth and Sprague they see the bus station, people milling about trying to seek shade. A vender sells hot dogs and shaved ice. A man strums a guitar crooning for passersby to drop change in his bucket. "I know your late father was running for a second term in the House. But anyone who's been in this town long enough knows that."

Even if there was small mention that the Phantomhives were survived by a six-year-old son, he must have been whisked away from the media attention during those trials. Ciel looks to the sidewalk as they mosey in silence, as though the pounding of his footsteps on the pavement can pummel some unrecognized grief back into some detached corner of memory.

Ciel stops sipping at his drink. "My father went to Newark University."

"And I take it that's where you are going to school too."

Ciel nods. His silence betrays his lack of enthusiasm for being accepted to a college with such a grand reputation.

"What made you choose that school?"

"Well, I can't say it was necessarily my choice."

Sebastian leans towards his company to press that Ciel should continue. People are so willing to relinquish their stories, that just a glance of interest has them spilling information.

"I have family here who wants to pay my way through college. Their only stipulation is that I set my sights to law school, just as my father. Kinda strange, how for most of my life I didn't see or hear from them, and when I turned eighteen they were suddenly interested in me, in my future. My god father told me they were offering me an opportunity I can't refuse, that I'm lucky to avoid all that debt." Ciel finishes the last of his drink and chucks the cup as they pass by a garbage can.

Sebastian leans back and folds his arms. "Sounds like you have it made."

"Yeah, life's just comin' up roses." The sarcasm of that remark trickles like the sweat on his temples.

For all his pretty and privilege, the sophistication of his thoughts and tastes, Sebastian recognizes that this little soul is missing a key component. Why would Ciel Phantomhive have reason to possess it when he is being handed so much, simply for the virtue of being his father's son? He may have his personal struggles, but they're no more exceptional than any other human being's. Furthermore, they had failed to imbue this young lad with the very thing that Sebastian considers an essential spice of humanity.

Ciel Phantomhive is not desperate.

It was the same situation for the man convicted in the Phantomhive case. Sebastian had gone to great lengths to implant himself and make residence in Stamford-Newark, pulled strings to sit on the jury for the trials. He remembers how the man shuffled in with shackles on his ankles, his orange jumpsuit stretched over massive shoulders, his thick brow that held a poverty-meanness and his near seven-foot imposing presence. From this defendant Sebastian sensed a truth that no one else would have bothered to investigate.

That man was not guilty of the murders of Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive.

One would think that if a man believes with his whole heart that he is not guilty of such a crime, he would fight against it, even with evidence stacked against him, even though an air of bias surrounded the proceedings. Sebastian eventually came to the realization that the man was not seeking to retain his freedom, but seemed almost content with the prospect of rotting in jail for the rest of his life, hell knows why. He could not conjure the smallest whiff of desperation from the man, and so the jury's decision was unanimous, and the demon's escapade to find some worthy soul to contract with came up a colossal bust.

He is not about to devote such an effort to a complacent soul, only to waste his time on receiving bitter disappointment in the end. Sebastian would rather stay hungry.

Half-way around the block, they turn down Market Street, the sidewalk shadowed by tattered awnings. Despite being called such, there was little offered in the way of shops, with half the buildings deserted. A few places still clung to business, such as the hookah bar and a dingy looking tattoo parlor. The old general store which used to advertise its establishment in 1908 closed on its centennial, its sign still dominating the block. Sebastian and Ciel are the only ones to occupy the sidewalk.

Ciel elbows Sebastian's arm. "Alright, your turn. Deal's a deal."

Sebastian feels little compulsion to give anything in return for what he's been told and continues his game of evasion. "Tell me, Ciel. If I divulge anything to you, just what would you do with that information?"

"Er… what do you mean?"

"How does it benefit you to know anything about me?"

Ciel has been given the means to drift along the swift path forged for him, and seems for want of nothing in his life that Sebastian feels compelled to give. He rather wishes they could speed up this walk, for with it being close to the lunch hour he understands that his crew might need him back. He could just leave Ciel then and there, dash up the sidewalk and hurry back to finish his tasks for the day. As he trots ahead, Ciel blurts, "Maybe I'm just interested, man."

Sebastian hears footsteps quicken to catch up to him. The wind carries the disconsolate salt of sweat like sea spray up the sidewalk and a thought snaps into his head: give him a chase. He turns and launches at Ciel, pulls him into an abandoned alley next to the hookah bar.

"Maybe I'm not being clear. What do you have to gain from being interested in little ol' me?" Ciel backs against the hot brick of the closed shop. Sebastian places his hands to either side, uncaring that the mason is hot enough to fry an egg, or that Ciel looks rather uncomfortable. "Because I can tell you right now, you got a good thing going despite some early setbacks, Ciel Phantomhive. So unless you got a real reason, you got nothing to gain from this pursuit."

"Whoever said anything about a pursuit?" Ciel murmurs. He pulls his gaze away from the man's face glowering over him, scans the shoulders flexing from Sebastian leaning against the wall. He shrinks an inch, wishing he could melt into the building behind him, but that brick is blistering and Sebastian's bearing equally so. "Maybe I should be asking you what has you so interested in me?"

During such a scorching part of the day the wind can't blow into the little back way and the smells of the place can just fester. Ciel smells like tart intimidation, pungent and earthy. It builds in the space between them and Sebastian sips at it for a moment before his lips curl into a smile.

"Oh now that's a good question. What do you have to offer me, Ciel Phantomhive? What do you have to give to entertain a foolish interest?" Sebastian loosens his tie and watches Ciel gulp.

This heady aroma peaks before souring into something like shame. All Ciel can think to murmur is, "I don't know."

Sebastian confirms his suspicions. This twink doesn't want to admit he's light in his loafers. What a pity.

He pushes off the wall and steps back, and the boy exhales his relief. "I don't have time to play with boys who just want to string me along. And here I thought you were a cocky little thing that could offer some mild intrigue, but maybe I'm wrong."

Sebastian strides out the alleyway without a second glance. He feels Ciel's trembling rage behind him, and is reminded that when people are given a little push, they will always push back. Sure enough, Ciel shouts "Hey!" and Sebastian lazily twists to face the young man huffing and puffing up the sidewalk.

"You're a real asshole."

"Well, you wanted to know something about me, there ya go."

Sebastian continues his brisk pace up the steep incline of Fourth Street. By the time he reaches the corner, back at Catspaw where they started, Ciel sags against a patio table out of breath, the front of his polo splotched with sweat.

The power walk uphill in summer did not so much as ruffle a hair on Sebastian's head. He adjusts the knot of his tie as he views customers entering the café. The crew is all hands on deck as they scramble to accommodate the increased business. "A word of advice, Mr. Phantomhive. Take what has been offered to you in life. You can either choose to own it, or let it own you. I have no interest in people who choose the latter." He sees the cogs turning in Ciel's mind, yes, the spark ignited. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow." Sebastian winks and steps inside.

Ciel is at a loss for the audacity of this coffee shop manager. Despite sounding so dismissive, Sebastian's words strike a nerve and forces him to consider things he hadn't really given himself opportunity to consider. For the first time in Ciel's life he has the freedom to move about as he pleases, to pursue a thing for the sake of interest, and he doesn't really know how to do that because Sebastian was right, all his life he had been told what to do.

Questions roll about in his head. What do I really want? How much of my life is really my own? What do I have to offer? It makes him feel small and insignificant, crushed with the possibility that the answer may very well be "nothing." Ciel walks further up Sprague in the direction of his apartment, checking off all the things in his life he can't claim as his own.

His reason for being here is because of pressure from his family. He could manage to stay in a student apartment of his own because his late father had set up quite a trust fund for him. His ambitions really have more to do with family expectation. Nothing he owns is collected by his own work or personal effort. All his knowledge was built because other people sought to cultivate these talents within him.

Ciel concludes that there has to be in possession of some part of him that is all his own. Strip away the name, the associations, the trappings that comprise his life, and what is left?

I am very lonely in the world, the morose, sobering thought clamors in his head.

When Sebastian had asked him, "What do you have to gain?" he should have found some courage to say he wants a connection to another person. When in the alleyway, Ciel noticed that not a single bead of sweat was on Sebastian's forehead, that his eyes are lit almost by their own brilliance, even if his bangs shadow his face. A well-tailored shirt suggests firm arms and chest, a potential strength much greater than appearance would lead to believe.

Despite all these appealing observations Ciel had squashed down a part of himself he has every right to be accountable for, but was too afraid to give it thought. As he trudges down the sidewalk alone, he digs up the possibility in his mind, yes, this indeed is another part he can lay claim to. He had left Diederich's strict household not just because of college, but because he absolutely, desperately, desired to explore a part of himself he was too ashamed to give voice to.

Stamford-Newark is the best place for it, he learned quickly. DC has its Dupont circle, its night clubs, bookstores, plenty of places to meet other young men quite like him, but Dee kept close tabs on where Ciel used his metro card and when. He was allowed friends over, but the door had to remain open, and many times Ciel had invited them under the pretense of studying or school projects. One very unfortunate accident involved Dee stepping into Ciel's room unannounced to find that he and the little blond friend of his were not studying at all.

Ciel never discussed that episode with his god father, nor did he care to. He recognized the shame and embarrassment that Diederich looked at him with. Even if it was never said, his suggestion that Ciel go to Newark University was because Dee really just wanted his perverted godson out of his house. Perhaps going to the school his father went to would produce a similar result of finding some nice young lady to marry. Everyone has reasons for Ciel wanting to attend Newark, and none of them involve Ciel's interests, a topic which even Ciel has given little thought to.

Sebastian is absolutely right, Ciel has no control over any aspect of his life. Instead all the adults are quick to make the decisions for him. Why the hell would anyone want to engage with him if he fails to live with his own sense of self-determination?

Ciel passes by the majestic buildings of the school with their elegant porticos attached to plain brick buildings. He is brought to the startling conclusion that the only thing he has is himself, his own being, the intangible thing that makes him. Ciel is his loneliness, his discontent, his confusion, his frustration, his oppressive need to belong to something outside of himself and that he should achieve that by his own will. And he would not be considering all of this if it isn't for that intolerably handsome manager over at the coffee shop.

Sebastian is another person making decisions for him and telling him what he should be doing. This infuriates Ciel even more. Take what life has given me and own it. Yeah? Well, how about you shove it, you creep?

So much of what has been bestowed to him in life was built by parents for whom he has but wisps of memories. Most of him can be attributed to ghosts of the past, and perhaps that is the reason Ciel has such a difficult time determining his own realness. It feels as though the family he has in Stamford-Newark is well over the grief of their passing after thirteen years, but when did Ciel ever have a chance to really acknowledge what he was losing? No one asked Ciel how he was feeling, whether he really wanted to go live with a godfather. It just happened and perhaps in some childlike shock Ciel allowed it to happen, without tantrum.

How many times when Ciel started to feel anger or frustration did his godfather tell him to pull himself together, to not act like a brat? Boys don't cry, and that discipline and honor are what make boys into men. When did Ciel ever push back and scream for a rage held prisoner inside of him? When did Ciel ever take the opportunity to make a mess of anything?

Ciel sees the apartment buildings just ahead and realizes he is exhausted by the heat of the day. His impulse to go back to the coffee shop was a complete waste of his time because Sebastian had been disingenuous in every way and made him feel like a total fool. His southern accent sounds too forced, his movements seem too rehearsed, and he sprays too much starch into his shirts. Despite this feeling of how fake Sebastian seems, Ciel can't put the man out of his mind.

* * *

Ciel returns to Catspaw just as Sebastian had said he would. Hands spread on the counter, he leans over and mutters at that irritable, smirking face, "All I have to give are my loneliness and anger."

"I'm sure you got more than that, Mr. Phantomhive."

"Do I? Maybe getting to know you better will prove that true." And he stomps out.

Sebastian runs to the back to laugh up a storm in the walk-in refrigerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- ALDI is a grocery store chain known for selling a select inventory of quality food items for really cheap.
> 
> -Iced coffee with condensed milk is sometimes referred to "Vietnamese coffee."
> 
> Follow my tumblr: [Eglentyne-mcqueen](http://eglentyne-mcqueen.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

A peculiar division occurs between those customers who are deemed “regular,” as opposed to everyone else. While many regulars display graciousness for  the personalized service they receive, a few notable individuals will take advantage of it. Every barista has that one customer that gets under their skin even if they can never voice their disdain for them. For the Catspaw baristas, one mention of Mr. Sutcliffe incites eye rolling and exasperated groans.

He visits the coffee shop at seven thirty-five every morning and a barista can set their watch to it. He walks through the door in a stiff business suit, and wears his lengthy hair in a low pony tail that seems to be pulled far too tight. Sebastian knows the regular order (two mochas, one made with an extra shot and no whipped cream), but Mr. Sutcliffe is under the assumption that everyone who works there should have his order memorized without him having to ever utter it. Furthermore, he anticipates that someone should be getting to work on his order at the sight of his rigid gait down the sidewalk. Heaven help the barista who should get it wrong.

Finn is the type who for all his friendliness gets flustered at the bar when business bloats with a line out the door. On one such morning at ten after eight Mr. Sutcliffe muscles his way through the crowd to express such indignation that his order was wrong. He shoves a cup in Finn’s face, red lipstick smeared on the rim of the lid and screeches, “My boss couldn’t take two sips of this! I want to speak to Mr. Michaelis!!” Despite Finn’s insistence that he would remake the drink, even though he’s unaware of how he made it wrong the first time, Mr. Sutcliffe has no interest working toward a solution, but much prefers commenting on Finn’s perceived incompetence.

Sebastian steps forward to heap gratuitous apologies for the mistake, much to Finn’s relief.  He offers to remake this mocha that does indeed have an extra shot of espresso and Mr. Sutcliffe cranes over the bar to make sure there is no whipped cream on the drink before the lid is snapped on. When the dissatisfied customer is given a free drink coupon and is thanked profusely for coming back to give them a chance to make it right, only then does Mr. Sutcliffe look appeased about the situation. He still feels the need to comment how making a second trip has thrown off his morning routine and that Finn shouldn’t be the one to make his order any more. Other morning patrons look upon the dramatic scene with contempt but say nothing. It’s another example of how tantrums in the cafe are rewarded with additional handouts because if a regular customer should ever receive bad service they will do more than stop attending. They’ll be sure to tell a dozen others to do the same.

After the altercation Finn sulks in the back room, even if Sebastian assures him that it’s not a matter worth getting ruffled over and he won’t lose his job over it. He hears whispers from May-Lynn in the back telling Finn that Mr. Sutcliffe is just one of those asshole regulars that he needs to not let affect his good mood.

Of course, after regular visits, a customer like Ciel Phantomhive is soon greeted with delighted cheers and becomes a regular feature of the café’s atmosphere. It has little to do with how he always leaves his change in the tip jar, or how he compliments whoever makes his drink. The other baristas notice how when Ciel shows up, a notable yet undefinable change occurs with their shrewd manager.

With the fall semester under way, Ciel seems more focused on just getting through his studies, and the Catspaw baristas seem intent on helping him in the best way they know how: fresh coffee and an inviting atmosphere. Him frequenting alone appears to be the norm until another individual catches wind of what Ciel does with his afternoons and starts showing up to be a mighty distraction.

Liz Midford attends the university just as Ciel does, but is on a track for medicine rather than law. One may speculate why she would make such a career choice, since her habits indicate she has no interest in the subject. From sporting a style that is dominated by daisy dukes to the incessant chittering of her phone, her ambitions are more social than anything. When Ciel is asked one day by May-Lynn, “Is she your girlfriend?” he scrunches his nose in response.

“No, she’s my cousin.”

Liz is another such customer that causes a barista to roll their eyes and groan, but for very different reasons. She’s not really a coffee drinker, which Sebastian considers a suspicious quality in and of itself.  

“I want something that’s going to wake me up but I don’t want it to taste like coffee,” Liz says. From the high pitched twang of her voice to the way she bounces on the balls of her feet, May-Lynn is convinced that Liz has no problems when it comes to exuberance.  Liz requests that she add extra caramel to her blended frappe as May is in the middle of working on it, much to her disdain for being given instruction from across the counter. Even if she halved the amount of espresso in the drink and doubled up the sugar, Liz is convinced it still tastes too much like coffee. Ciel notices how May’s strained smile twitches and he says, “Liz, just take the drink and stop being so picky.”

She starts frequenting the cafe under the pretense of studying, and at first Ciel has no objection to this. After all, Liz is family on his late father’s side. Even if she’s not a very productive study partner, in the very least she can give him some connection to the family he lost. In between rewriting pages of notes on anaerobic respiration he springs questions like, “Do you have memories of me before?”

Distracted with watching a cat video on her laptop she offers a, “Huh?”

He pulls at one of her ear buds and she seems a bit flustered by this. “Do you remember anything about me before I left... to live with my god father?”

“I don’t know... maybe a couple things.”

Ciel puts down his pen and leans over his books spread across the table. “I remember one Christmas, you were there. You wanted to play with that tape recorder I got that year.”

“Oh yeah, you were so mean and your mom was like, ‘Share and play nice with Lizzie.’ And you got yourself so worked up that she took it away and we didn’t get to play with it for the rest of the day.”

Ciel looks down and smiles. “We were such brats.”

“We were just kids then.”

“What else do you remember about my mom?”

Liz pinches the ear bud back into her ear, bothered that her entertainment is disrupted. “I don’t know. She was pretty.”

“Do you know if your parents have any pictures of my parents?”

“Maybe?”

“Can you find out?”

Liz finds another adorable cat clip to giggle over. Even though she nods her head like she’s going to follow up on her cousin’s request, he knows that it’s a lost cause. She’s not interested in asking Ciel’s Uncle Alexis and Aunt Francis.Try as he might to stay on good terms with his Liz, he finds less and less inclination to do so. The more he tries to deflect her offers to do something other than study, the harder she tries to pull Ciel away from his books.

“You should make more friends, Ciel!”

He rolls his eyes. What Liz really means to say is he should spend time with her friends, doing things that she likes to do, whether Ciel has any interest or not. Even if he is a somewhat solitary individual, he prefers the company he keeps to be more engaging, more sophisticated. If he’s to make plans with anyone, it would be with someone...

Ciel would be kidding himself if he says he comes to Catspaw just for a place to study, especially when there are many places to go that might offer fewer distractions. He catches Sebastian’s tall figure out the corner of his eye, who goes about conducting his normal business and Ciel tries to reason that the manager is not deliberately acting as a distraction, unlike his cousin.

In the midst of trying to memorize the differences between mitosis and meiosis she pipes up, “Hey, I have an idea, let’s take a break and go to the bowling alley! My friend Marie is over there with her boyfriend right now.”

“I really can’t, Liz, I have an exam at the end of the week and I’m really not ready for it.”

She twirls a blonde curl around her finger and pouts in her chair. “You are always studying, always reading something. You would have absolutely no fun at all if it wasn’t for me.”

Ciel doesn’t consider that comment to be fair at all. A small thought in the back of his mind considers just what sort of fun Sebastian could offer, but he shoves it out of the way to snap, “When I said we could hang out I meant studying. But most of the time you just waste time on Myspace. Seriously, who is even on Myspace anymore?”

Liz slams down the lid on her laptop, “Well... why do you think you need to try so hard? It’s Biology, a dumb gen ed course that’s not required—”

“I’m pre-law, everything I take matters. Are you saying I don’t need to care? Some of us aren’t as carefree as you, which by the way, I guess you still haven’t cared to ask your parents about those pictures—”

“Oh my God Ciel!” Liz stands from the table and Snake sitting in the corner looks up from his notebook. “Why are you still on about that? What’s it even matter?”

Inflamed that his cousin has no consideration for what he might feel, Ciel springs to his feet. “It matters to me!” In his excitement he knocks the table.

As if in slow motion, Ciel’s cup teeters on the table’s edge before shattering onto the flagstone. In a burst, milk and espresso splatter onto his bag, pieces of ceramic scattering across the floor. The two stare in “oh shit” silence.

Snake slides out of his seat and hisses to May-Lynn to get the mop bucket. Ciel looks across the cafe at Sebastian who appears unaffected by the sound of broken mug disrupting the low-key ambiance. The young man wants to form some apology but instead his lips are suspended in alarm. Sebastian smirks and says, “You okay?”

Ciel picks his bag off the ground but the bottom of it is dripping with latte and putting it on the table would be an even worse mess. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry,” is all he can manage to work out. Liz stands with her arms folded as if she has nothing to do with the situation.

“Ciel, I’ll text you later.” She shoves her laptop into the book bag on the back of her chair and walks out of the coffee shop.  Her cousin stands in disbelief and further irritation that he should have to deal with the mess by himself.

May-Lynn bounds out the back room with the mop bucket and various cleaning items and Ciel meets her with, “Please, let me clean it up.”

Broom in hand she begins sweeping shards of mug off the floor. “No need, won’t take a minute.” She hands Ciel a wet cleaning cloth. “But here’s a rag to clean your bag with.”

He starts sopping up the bottom of his messenger bag that isn’t going to suffer from a bit of spilled milk, which always looks worse than what it really is.  May-Lynn pushes chairs out the way to clean up the latte puddle and not a minute later the wet floor sign is placed where the spill used to be. “Don’t feel bad, Ciel. We all slip up on occasion. If you’re like me, you learn to not bat an eye, just clean it up and move on. Sebastian will make you another drink, if you ask.”

“I’ll pay for the cup.”

“Don’t worry about it, we got plenty.”

“You sure?”

“Aw, bless your heart. Sebastian, will you make Ciel another latte?”

 “Didn’t even have to ask.” While May-Lynn was busy with clean-up, Sebastian had been equally busy brewing up a couple shots, and a pitcher of milk hissing away inconspicuously under the steam wand. He places a mug of fresh latte on the counter, paired with a most generous smile.

Ciel is inclined to sneer at that presumptuous expression, but when he walks over to see rosettes swirled into the foam of the milk he can’t help but feel a small bit of that contempt dissolve. None of the other baristas can craft a latte quite like him. “What do I owe you?”

“A conversation.”

Ciel looks to the pile of books on his table across the cafe. “I don’t think I’m much for studying anymore. Not like it’s going to do me any good.” He takes a seat at one of the stools in front of the hand off counter, tracing the handle of his mug. “She really pisses me off.”

“That girl? May-Lynn says she’s your cousin.”

“Do you baristas always talk about us customers?”

Sebastian looks away in a mock-guilty kind of expression. “Well... not all the time.”

“So I bet you heard our argument.”

“Oh every word.”

Ciel chuckles and takes another sip of his latte, pausing on its sweet, just-right-frothy texture. Sebastian leans with elbows on the counter. “If I might make a suggestion, if you’re looking to figure out something about your parents, you ain’t gonna get it from her.”

“Who says I’m trying to figure out something about my parents?”

“You asked Liz about those photos at least three times this week... not that I was really paying attention or anything.”

Ciel shoves Sebastian in the shoulder under some pretense of annoyance. Even if he doesn’t budge from the playful gesture, Ciel determines that he would give the man another shove for a less than cheeky comment. Or just because he can. He decides to steer the direction of the conversation to something a little more innocuous.

“She doesn’t know I’ve been looking through some old obituaries. And I found one on my parents. Says they’re buried at Bethel Hill Cemetery. You know where that is?”

“Bethel Hill is off of Church Street, but it’s easier to get there if you take business 35 down and get off the Church Street exit. Otherwise you have to go up fourth, take a left onto South Main, go all the way down that and after taking a right—”

“Alright alright.” Ciel blinks for a moment. “I don’t even know that part of town. I’ve been studying for this exam and I’ve been meaning to make time to find them, it’s just…”

Sebastian senses the acidic tang of apprehension in Ciel’s voice, a misgiving full and deep in how his words trail, a pile of doubt to cover some fount of emotion. It only takes a little prodding, so he leans in real close and whispers, “How much have you been looking into your parent’s deaths, Ciel?”

Sebastian smells like coffee and vanilla syrup, hand soap and starched cotton and it makes Ciel gulp back the spit in his mouth. He sips at his coffee. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so concerned about this exam if I hadn’t been putting off the studying.”

“In pursuit of other questions, huh?”

Ciel nods, and even with the mug to his face he murmurs, “It’s not so wrong to want to know them, at least in some small way.”

“But if you had the opportunity, you would want to find out more?” Perhaps a hint of suggestion flits in those auburn eyes, how his fingers drum on the worn wood, and he wonders if he and Sebastian are still talking about the same thing.

He lowers the cup and looks him straight in the eye. “Yeah. I’d take any opportunity to find out more about my parents.”

“It’s that loneliness and anger, that’s what’s doing it.” Sebastian laughs as Ciel tries to hide his blush behind his coffee cup, reminded of the stupid, angst-ridden teenage move he made a little over a week ago, like he had some profound point to make. He left Catspaw feeling so impeccably foolish, and without any idea that Sebastian might have found the move daring and just a touch stirring.

The manager looks about the cafe, and notices no one else sitting but Snake. “I have a proposition. You’ve never seen your parent’s grave site, have you?”

“Uh... no, I haven’t.”

“You want to?”

“Like, today? As in you’ll take me?”

“For a price.”

“What do you want?”

“What do you have to offer?” Maybe there’s something about how his hair falls over a hardened gaze, or how the corner of his mouth twitches as if to say, “I’m waiting.” Maybe Ciel considers what he could possibly give Sebastian before he dashes some outrageous idea from his mind.

“My phone number.” Ciel sets down his half- empty mug. “Take me to see my parents and I’ll give you my number.”

“And what the hell am I going to do with that?”

“Call me.” Ciel grins.

Sebastian pulls at the cup in Ciel’s hands, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. Ciel notices that the man’s exquisitely black nails have no sign of chipping, and wonders how a barista can keep them in such condition, working in a place like this. “And what benefit is there in calling you, Ciel Phantomhive?”

Feeling a little emboldened, he pulls back on his drink. “That I just might have more to offer.”

 “You’re teasing again. Don’t you go stringing me along now.” Ciel has an acute awareness that Sebastian’s fingers were on the rim of the cup but a moment before he touches it to his lips. He’s also aware that he just agreed to take a ride to some place he’s never been with a man he suspects is probably not the most trustworthy.  Caution be damned, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, Ciel had not been too keen on the idea of attempting the trek on his own. No one else would have cared to accompany him, and certainly not Liz.

Sebastian ducks away to the back and a minute later comes up with Roy. After switching over the safe for his senior employee to take coverage for the day, Sebastian walks around the counter to where Ciel is packing up his books. “Ready to go?” He pulls his keys from his pocket. Ciel slings the bag over his shoulder and nods.


	4. Chapter 4

Driving an automobile is one of Sebastian’s many pleasures in a civilization that offers no end of indulgence when it comes to consumption and entertainment. He’s convinced humans will wreck the world with their high-cost frivolity, and he intends to enjoy every moment on the way there. Being part of a culture where individuals define themselves by their spending habits and their hobbies, he’s adapted his character to fit. 

The dashboard of his Toyota Celica gleams waxy black, and the leather upholstery without as much as a scratch. A strange-looking cat head with green eyes hangs from the rear-view mirror in contrast to an otherwise impeccable-looking vehicle. Parked beneath the shade of a dogwood in a small lot behind the building, the two hop in, Ciel tossing his still-soggy bag onto the spotless cabin floor in the back, and Sebastian bumps the car onto the road. Behind the wheel, he swerves around cars, revs through yellow lights, and screeches onto the interstate, quite literally like a bat out of Hell. 

Ciel’s grip on the door handle tightens as he watches them dodge traffic that appears at a standstill compared to the speed they’re maneuvering. “Dude, could you maybe chill out?” He covers his eyes as they nearly clip another car before changes lanes. 

“Don’t worry, I have terrific reflexes.” Sebastian pushes a button on the stereo console and screeching heavy metal thumps from the speakers. “Here’s some music, relax a little.” The guitar bursts into a synthetic shrill of hammer ons and the car rumbles with the clamor of a double bass drum.

“What the Hell kind of music is this?” 

“Driving music. Helps me focus.” In addition to acquiring a thrill for driving culture, he’s also taken a liking to the many variations of entertainment humans create faster than anyone can have a chance to consume. Even an immortal feels limited in what is possible to consume, and Sebastian has developed his musical preferences like anyone else. Heavy metal feels like a romanticization of these narratives humans consider dark and sinister and he enjoys wishes he could confess to enjoying it ironically. 

Sebastian drops a gear as soon as he sees break lights in front of him, passes another car and guns it as he switches lanes again. The engine feels as though it’s straining to not jump out from under the hood. 

Ciel shrieks, “Oh my God I’m going to die. When you offered to take me to the cemetery I didn’t think you meant to kill us!” 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” They careen onto the Church Street exit and the car hushes to a gentle stop. After looking both ways Sebastian guns it again, passing a car over a double-sided line and making it back to the right side while narrowly missing an on-coming car. Ciel can eke out the sound of the driver’s horn under the blare of electric guitar and shrieking vocals. 

He drops the car into third as they rumble onto the cobbled streets of historic downtown, passing cottages and gift shops. Shopkeepers wear 18th period style clothing as they sell candles, handwoven baskets, and baked items. The novelty of it all is the real selling point for the tourism in the area, when it could be said that Stamford-Newark has a history similar to so many other southern cities. Bethel Lutheran is the oldest church in the city, built in an understated Gothic style, so naturally its cemetery would be one of its oldest cemetery plots as well. 

“Why do I feel I remember this church?” Ciel says as they turn onto the narrow way around the brick cathedral. Passing the shrubbery on the roadside a landscape of stones and statues, mausoleums, tombs and effigies is unveiled. Each monument to those departed marks the passing of lineage, the trees towering around them an equal measure of time’s steady lapse. Their roots upend stones as if frustrated these casket vaults should replace the life-granting soil. 

The vehicle cruises in second as they meander through the twisting paths of the cemetery and Ciel sighs in relief. “You drive like a mad man, it’s a wonder you didn’t get pulled over, Seb.” 

He slams the brake and almost forgets to engage the clutch with it. What did he just call me? Ciel is too preoccupied with the many stones and effigies spotting the hills to notice Sebastian’s surprise. Feeling the car jerk to a stop, he turns just as his driver wipes the perplexed expression from his face. Sebastian has always placed a deep significance to the power of names, and he can’t recall any recent time someone has given him one, even a nickname. Names define identity; this is a truth he’s held for over a century. Sebastian grips the wheel even though the car is parked, trying to determine how and why this feels significant to him. 

Ciel only notices how Sebastian switches off the stereo and how it leaves a chilling placidness. Without the music to distract him he has to confront the unease inching to the forefront of his thoughts. Is he really going to be standing where his parents are buried? When was the last time he was that close to them? He feels some relief that he didn’t have to attempt this trip on his own, but he’s concerned for losing face in front of Sebastian, who he still isn’t sure how to regard in the first place. 

Sebastian breaks the stillness with a soft, “Hey, you happen to know where they might be buried?” 

“No idea. I’ve never been here before.” 

“You said the church looks familiar.” 

“Yeah, maybe. But I never actually went to my parent’s funeral.” 

“We’ll just have to start searching.” 

They are parked beside an imposing mausoleum, the name “BURNETT” chiseled over the lintel. After exiting the vehicle Sebastian comments, “Your family would probably have a plot or a mausoleum on this side of the cemetery. These are the old families, the affluent families.”

“Phantomhive is not that old. Not old enough to afford something like that.” As he points to the mausoleum before them, he considers the name hewed in some old style serif face and wonders why the family name feels relevant to him. Sebastian shrugs and starts walking a path up the hill. As he glances back and tilts his head, Ciel’s feet plod forward in some unwilling automation, despite his apprehension wanting to root him to the ground. 

They reach the top of the hill and survey the area, trying to read for some sign of where the Phantomhives might be interred. Ciel spots a tall grave monument in the distance with a large letter P engraved into its obelisk form and points. No one has to explain to him this sensation of family identity or heritage, but rather it felt as instinctual as some kind of natal homing, of origin. “There.” 

The entrance into the Phantomhive site has a whole arch, and a marble demarcation around the entire plot that has space for perhaps one more generation. To one corner are grandparents, great grandparents in above ground vaults, the engraving still clear on near hundred-year old granite monuments. To the other side stands an unimposing block, still stately but nothing as grand as its predecessors. 

Vincent Phantomhive b. June 13th, 1958,  
Rachel Phantomhive b. October 12th, 1962,  
Died October 13th, 1996  
Rest in thine, sweet memory ours

“I feel like I should have brought some flowers or something.” Ciel stares at the small flower pot set before the headstone, filled instead with brackish water. He considers that coming here wasn’t meant to be a pilgrimage, and yet as he reads other stones, names he might have heard in passing like wisps of memories, he feels a solemnity about the place. The only thing he can think to offer up is some profound emotion he wouldn’t have been able to confront until now. 

He turns to Sebastian standing in the arch. “Could you just... give me a minute?” Sebastian nods and walks some distance away to sit on a bench under a large pin oak. 

He just thought this would be a simple visit, but it isn’t until this moment he realizes this has been weighing heavy on his heart. For much of his life they consisted of a nice thought he might have fabricated just to have something fond in his head to ponder over. And that was all they could have ever been for Ciel, a sweet memory he felt had sewn a small stitch in the tapestry of his life. But that one thread he feels is pulled taut and bunches his heart into so many wrinkles, like a crumpled handkerchief to cry into. What could he have been if they had been given time to sew more of themselves onto him? 

Looking at the stone brings all manner of memories to unrest within him, the little details he had spent years covering with the business of growing up. Ciel remembers that morning; it might have been a Sunday. The steward had come into the bedroom to dress him, then picked him up and ushered him out of the house, all without a word. He saw strange policemen everywhere, taking pictures, looking busy but nothing was said to him. They rode in a black car and it was his aunt Frances who told him, choking back the tears that his parents had gone to heaven and they weren’t coming back. Ciel’s first thought was why they would ever leave without him. But maybe it was the same way that dad would leave for DC regularly, and while he would be gone for a couple weeks at most, he would eventually come back. And when he said, “But they have to come back,” was when Fran burst into squeaking sobs that he knew in some rudimentary way that this had to be impossible. 

As soon as his parents were gone, killed by one man, all efforts were quick to hush their memory, to bury that into the ground with them. Why would no one speak to him about such things? Diederich substituted as a parent to the best of his ability, but everything about him was concluded as being “not father,” from the smell of his clothes to the brusqueness of his discipline to the presents he received during Christmas. It was a life that forced him to bite back emotions. He feels a giant lump in his throat over this and realizes he had never cried in grief over their passing. Thirteen years, a full childhood, a full life time, and he had never once cried.

So he sits before the grave stone and whispers, “I’m still here,” hoping that maybe they could find comfort in knowing their son had survived them. But Ciel will be damned before crying now, not with Sebastian still close enough to see him. He glances back behind him to discover the man on the bench staring back at him. 

For unbeknownst to the boy sitting prone before his parents’ grave, Sebastian has been drinking in the display. Ciel sees Sebastian’s brilliant wide eyes and the hair swept away from his face as if he had just witnessed some splendorous event. The demon under the shade of the pin oak hears that secret of regret as though carried on the wind. He smells the grief built up by years of lost time, like a fecund bed of fresh-turned sorrow. Oh what might an infernal creature have to sow into that? 

Ciel can’t place how such a shameless stare unnerves him so, probably in the same way Sebastian has some uncanny knowing of things. Like how he may know what drink Ciel wants before he says it. Like how his tall figure seems to appear in the corner of his eye just as he starts thinking about those long limbs and strong jaw line. Already feeling frail and vulnerable, he gulps back the painful lump in his throat because he can’t lose it front of this man. As he stands and pats the grass off his knees, Sebastian strides toward the Phantomhive plot in a way no one should trample through a cemetery. He stands just before the arch with some savage posture and Ciel has a small thought that they are the only ones in this cemetery. 

“I’m ready to leave.” Some dangerous tenseness in Sebastian seems to evaporate after Ciel’s simple statement. He squares his shoulders and rummages for the keys in his pocket. As the two walk back to the car Sebastian can’t help himself and as though by reflex, an unseen magnetic force that insists that he should make contact, as every preternatural cell in his body urges him to touch. He drapes an arm over Ciel’s shoulders as they walk to the car. It feels heavy, just as the ache in his chest and the lump in his throat that can’t seem to be swallowed. The man’s presence feels scalding like the heat behind his eyes and Ciel fears he may wilt under the pressure, unable to process any of this emotion. When they approach the car he shrugs Sebastian’s arm off of him and plops down in the passenger seat, slamming the door closed. He fumes for a moment while his driver walks around the car to the other side. 

They turn out of the cemetery and Sebastian doesn’t bother to turn back on the stereo. He says in a bored tone, “Tell me where you’re staying, I’ll drop you off.” 

“I’m not ready to go home.” 

“Oh.” Well then.” Sebastian was sure his slight advance had shut off any chance at getting closer. “What would you rather do?” 

Ciel shifts in his seat. “Can we... talk?” 

“We’re talking now.” 

“No, go someplace to talk. I don’t care where. I didn’t want to talk in the cemetery because it felt weird, and I don’t want to be at my place right now, I just want to clear my head.” 

Maybe Ciel wants a chance to open up, just on his terms, Sebastian considers. He revs onto the interstate toward the business district of downtown. They pass the Sprague street exit, continuing east. Ciel looks out the window to see the highway as a wide ramp overlooking a crisscross of roads bloated with traffic. 

Sebastian remarks, “I know a place. I like to go there on occasion, just to think.” 

Ciel slumps in his seat, preferring not to watch Sebastian’s driving. “Sure, whatever.” 

They bump onto an exit ramp of patched, uneven pavement that leads into a part of downtown that at one point in time been relegated to industry. On the empty street, save for them, they read in faded lettering ‘BURNETT FABRICS’ painted on the side of a towering brick building with so many boarded windows. Sebastian careens the car into an abandoned trolley station, and Ciel notes he has never seen a trolley in Stamford-Newark. He does remember seeing the name “Burnett,” and wonders why this name feels significant. 

Sebastian knows the history of such a name, understands how the Burnetts had practically made the town. Burnett Fabrics was the solution for the economic fallout for a cotton-growing community post-Civil War. An additional industry brought a dilapidated community out of an economic depression. Stamford-Newark had a reason to build a train station, a refined product to ship, and it opened their small town to larger commerce. 

The slamming of car doors echoes through the hollow station. Ciel looks at the awning above them, and a platform leading to a side entrance into the factory. “What is this place?” 

“About a decade ago this place was so busy you couldn’t drive through it, stop and go traffic at nearly all hours, hence the trollies, picking up and dropping off people who worked the factory. Some routes went as far as East Stamford, and people in the complexes on that side of town packed themselves in just to get to work on time. But the factory shut down, maybe four years ago. Feels like a ghost town, don’t it?” Sebastian kicks a Coke bottle that was probably rolled in from the city wind, like so much of the rest of the debris piled in the station. 

“Did they go out of business?” 

“No. They outsourced.” Sebastian directs Ciel up the platform to a side entrance into the factory. Even though a sign reads “private property no trespassing” he pulls the door open and gestures inside. “Ain’t nobody here to bother us.”

Ciel wonders why he was brought to an abandoned factory. What does Sebastian mean by “outsource?” What about all the people who might have worked here? Is this even still Stamford? Even though he hears the rush of traffic as though the asphalt veins of the city relay this sound to him, this space possesses an eerie stillness. 

The warehouse is gutted of its looms and mills, where once there would have been machines spooling threads, winding silks, monstrously knitting out yards of fabric by the bolt. All that remains are heaps of wreckage, broken palettes, unsalvageable product, and rotted furniture. People had come in before to tag the walls, maybe just kids looking to get away with wrecking something or loot the place. 

Sebastian takes Ciel’s hand and directs him to metal stairs. “Follow me.” The stairs zig-zag up one side of the warehouse, stopping at open flights where there might have been specialty departments. They end on a small corridor that has a door leading to the roof. 

All about the perimeter is a brick ledge and a metal fence around that. The roof seems less cluttered, but at some point someone had thought to put together a bench of concrete blocks and wooden pallets. It sags under a side awning that looks to be a place where factory workers would come for smoke breaks. 

Sitting on the bench, Ciel considers this place possesses a different kind of loneliness than the cemetery, one where the activity of the city is on display, yet they’re isolated from it. Traffic shuffles on the interstate to the east, and lights beginning to flicker on in downtown buildings to the west. 

Sebastian says, “I’m usually only ever here at 2 in the morning. Those nights when I don’t feel like sleeping. So it’s different to see it during the day time.” The wind lifts the long strands of hair from his face, and he brings his focus off the city scape to Ciel sitting next to him. “You said you wanted to talk, but you’re not saying nothing.” 

“I’m sorry, just feeling a little stupid right now.” Ciel looks down at his knees that had been kneeling in the grass, when a hand with those inky nails rests on top of one. It’s almost as if Sebastian is pushing for him to feel too much. 

“I don’t think you have a reason to feel stupid.” Ciel dares to turn to look into those piercing eyes, how they blink slowly as a cat’s would if lounging in a sunbeam. What does he know about how I feel? He can’t help but resent someone who appears so collected because by comparison he feels like the contents of him are in shambles. 

“You would think visiting my parents would have been just a small thing, you know? I thought seeing them would make things feel better, but no, I really just feel worse. I never got to see them after they died, not a funeral, nothing, just gone. I think I remember mom kissing me goodnight, maybe. Then maybe I don’t. It could have just been like all the other times she would tuck me in, and I knew I would see her the next morning. Those kinds of things don’t stick out because they become the normal. But the morning after? I remember that, every moment.”

The words kept coming, blistering anger on his face that just gushed from some deep place. “And seeing where they were buried... no one had offered to take me to see them. I was just shuffled away, no one stopped to think that I could have been hurting too. Why do I feel like everyone wanted to be so quick to bury them? To them, my crying was fear, and I was always told to hush, that it was going to be okay. But it’s not okay, Seb.” 

There’s that name again, a name chosen and given freely, a thing Sebastian never asked for. He feels it wring in his head, a vibration through his shoulders and arms that reach to grasp at Ciel curling into himself. At this point of contact the boy whimpers but he can’t hold back that roaring wail any longer. “It’s not okay, I’m not okay…”

In a sultry voice Sebastian whispers, “Just let it out.” Ciel weeps in a way he was never given permission to, for no one gave him safe arms in which to cry. A gentle hand meanders between his shoulder blades and some foreign inclination forces him to grasp tight to Sebastian, his tears seeping into his blinding white shirt.

Sebastian revels in the feeling of those angry, acerbic tears, the sobs reverberating through the hollowness of him as expansive as the broken warehouse. He knows he can plant a suggestion, or two, anything that is going to keep those emotions inflamed, and compel Ciel to confide something to him. Absolutely delicious. He licks his lips, feeling awash in the full force of this boy’s heartache. He cards through his hair to ruffle the scent from him more, gulping it in for he had not felt of such a raw sensation off anyone in a great many years. The last he felt it was from a child who had experienced the horrors of which most adults could not bear to conceive. This instance could not carry the same travesty, but if Ciel should persist then maybe it can lead to events equally scandalous. 

“My parents were taken from me. They were murdered. And I want to know why.” He lifts his head, nose red and glossy, and he tries to stay his trembling lip. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not like this. Maybe school’s just stressing me out. I don’t think I like this town very much.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. Hey. C’mon now. You got a right to feel angry. Look at me.” Sebastian holds to the back of Ciel’s neck, staring into those bloodshot eyes. “I think you should look into your parents’ deaths. I think it is your right to know. Go and find these answers for yourself. No one’s holding you back but you.” 

Sebastian would not care to encourage it unless he knows some scandalous truth of what Ciel might find. But it would be more fun to watch him discover it, rather than just telling him. Oh what fury will it wring? The boy is in a state of pliability, an open bleeding heart in desperate need to be filled, as humans are often inclined to behaving in times of distress. He traces a thumb under one of those eyes to brush the wetness aside.

Everything about his sadness smells deliciously nostalgic. The demon whispers, “You remind me of someone I once knew. How the world had wronged him. It took my breath away, had me on bended knee.”

Ciel straightens up sniffling back the last of his sobs. “You sounded different, just now.” Sebastian tenses, knowing he just let a secret slip past his lips. The mask had cracked, an old memory surfaced to speak through in a tone he had tried so hard to erase from his tongue. 

He clears his throat. “What do you mean?” It’s no use playing dumb. That Received Pronunciation had taken hold of him just as tightly as a silk tie around his neck, a moment long enough for Ciel to hear it in marked contrast to that drawl Sebastian has tried so hard to force into his natural speech. 

“You sounded English. Like, not playing at it but the real thing. Born and bred. And you never did tell me where you’re from.” Sebastian feels the young man slinking away from him and he wants those hands back on his shoulders, wants to whisper more suggestions into his ear. He can deny the accusation or he can own up, grapple the situation back into his expert control. 

Sebastian puts on a sheepish expression, a half-embarrassed sideways glance but quirks the corner of his lip in a manner that is pompously British. “You caught me.” Ciel leans in but an inch, an unconscious motion that tells enough of his intrigue to discovering this bit of information. Sebastian takes this as an opening and lays out that silky inflection that peaks up like whipped cream. “You Americans have such an ear for foreigners, like we are curious oddities when all of you hail from a heritage of the same ilk. To be constantly harassed for it, people squealing at the sound of my own voice, dreadfully distracting, would you say?” 

Ciel finds it more than distracting. He finds it as invasive as the fingers cupping his jaw, how Sebastian stares into his eyes with brows knit in a feigned shyness. The weight of grief in his belly dissipates to a fluttery sensation. “No, not distracting at all,” he lies. 

“Oh tosh.” Sebastian loops his other arm around the boy’s waist to eradicate any comfortable distance between them. “I had to pick up the colloquial dialect as soon as I moved to town, because otherwise people are nothing but questions but you know, in some instances it can be a benefit. My, you are shaking like a leaf.” 

Ciel tries to deny this by clutching at Sebastian’s shoulders again, but this compels black-tipped fingers to trail over his ear, down the nape of his neck and he squirms. With words like brittle toffee and candied figs, no one should be allowed to sound that good. Could even the sound of Sebastian’s voice honey his lips? With this man he was afraid to find out, because everything about him felt dangerous. People don’t switch accents like that, not unless they’re hiding something. He could be just a fantastic actor and playing it up; Ciel isn’t sure what to believe.

He looks to a wet spot on the man’s shoulder. Just a moment ago he was bawling in this man’s arms and it felt good, cathartic. But he can’t place that nagging sensation of threat in the back of his head. He can’t make out sift between what is attractive and what is dangerous about this situation. Then he remembers he’s sitting on the roof of an abandoned warehouse with a man he knows very little about. 

“I have not heard myself speak like this in years. Feels like gloves that are too tight.” Sebastian frowns. 

Ciel chuckles at the comment, then stops when he feels a hand pulling at the back of his head, and those lurid eyes fill his vision. In his quietest whisper he says, “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“I know you won’t.” 

Sebastian’s eyes look almost predatory in this moment of stillness. As much as he wants to take back control Ciel can’t stop staring, and he fears it’s about to escalate to something he’s not ready for. 

Ciel’s phone beeps a tune in his pocket. 

He exhales, unaware he had been holding his breath and pulls away to fumble to see who had texted him. Flipping it open, he sees it is Lizzie. 

“Wat r u up 2?”

“If I don’t answer she’ll keep pestering.” He flits over the number keys to answer, “w/ a friend. ttyl.” Ciel wonders if he can really consider Sebastian a friend. 

Sebastian leans back, clearly perturbed with the interruption. Humans are in a state of perpetual distraction it seems. They were so much easier to ensnare when their attentions weren’t sidetracked by every shiny light or beeping noise. 

Ciel stammers, “I really have to get home, I have studying to get back to.” 

Acknowledging that the situation has deflated, Sebastian nods. They head down the stairs, Sebastian walking behind the boy at an awkward distance. Back in the car, he switches the thrashing music back on just to cover the silence. 

Between tracks he asks, “Where is your apartment?” 

“Shady Grove, past the school.” 

Despite the stiff atmosphere inside the cabin, he decides against the freeway, as having to contend with stop-and-go traffic will make the ride seem longer. He’s not going to push for something that’s clearly unwanted, much less waste his time. He also considers Ciel just might need time to process some emotions. Humans do need an exorbitant amount of time to adjust. He passes the stately buildings of Newark University, a few students meandering on sidewalks, but most classes are finishing for the day. He switches off the stereo to ask, “How do you feel?” He’s back to that twangy accent. 

Ciel takes a deep breath. For some reason Sebastian does seem more approachable this way. “Better? Strange? Still feeling stupid? I don’t know. I think I’m done feeling my feelings for today.” And he especially doesn’t want to think about Sebastian’s hands on him anymore for today. It seems like a priority for tomorrow, he reasons. 

Ciel points to the small complex across from the Durless Building of Medicine, and Sebastian winds about and stops in front of the entrance. Ciel breathes a sigh of relief that he didn’t park the car for fear he would try to invite himself in. Before he can reach into the backseat for his bag Sebastian lunges for his arm. 

“You owe me your number.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Sebastian unclips his phone from his belt and hands it to his passenger. Ciel fumbles to punch his number in as a new contact. He thought this would feel like such a tiny exchange, but instead it feels heavy, like he might be signing away something costly.

**Author's Note:**

> [Chapter 1 now has an audio commentary](http://eglentyne-mcqueen.tumblr.com/post/142355871218/i-have-very-clear-intentions-when-it-comes-to-my) Go have a listen. Like what I do? Follow my tumblr.


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